Imaginary Number
by FarisPants
Summary: Sherlock and John live in separate worlds and (unwillingly) visit each other whenever they sleep. They solve crimes and stuff. This is looking like it might be the first of a series that are based upon the episodes. This one relies heavily on The Study in Pink.
1. In Which Sherlock Seeks Outside Help

Sherlock strode into the office with the appropriately dramatic amount of swishing coat tails and sank his hands down on Stamford's desk. "Presumably you have witnessed multiple persons on the brink of death."

"Not of late." Stamford carefully pulled a pile of crap essays out of Sherlock's range and smiled up good-naturedly. "Teaching holds much more appeal. Fewer high stakes."

"Yet you worked my case."

"I was informed I would be," Stamford shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "What did you see?"

This was why Sherlock approached Stamford. He knew how to get to the point. Sherlock began pacing as he reeled off his information.

"A man, 168 centimeters, no more than nine and a half stones. He's fond of writing, but his hand cramps up easily, so he tends not to write very much. He had had medical training—"

"Is this an actual person?" Stamford interrupted, holding up a hand in attempt to stop the potentially endless description.

"He was completely covered in blood. His left shoulder—dominant side—had a gunshot wound. He was undergoing surgery _as I watched_."

"A vision, then," Stamford mused. "Seeing people is not uncommon."

"I know," Sherlock scoffed. He flounced across the room and span to lean against the wall. "He sees me too."

"Hallucinations are sometimes responsive." Stamford began tapping a pen against the crux between his left thumb and forefinger. "Has he appeared in dreams? What about him is haunting you?"

Sherlock nodded to his right. "He's here."

"Still? Has he been here the entire time?" Stamford asked, staring at the spot that Sherlock had indicated.

"Not consistently. He appears for five or six hours at a time, spaced about eight hours apart. He always disappears the same way; he tenses up and thrashes about for a moment, and then vanishes."

"And his appearance? Spectral? Solid? "

"Solid." Sherlock reached out with his right hand and clenched at empty air. His fist didn't close completely. His hand jerked further in that direction, and Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Stop!" he ordered sharply, tugging his fist closer to his side.

"May I?" Stamford rose: half-hesitant, half-earnest. Sherlock made a little acquiescing gesture and stepped back. Stamford held out a hand.

Sherlock's eyebrows leapt into his curls. "He's calling you Mike. This is the first time he's said anything."

Stamford reached forward cautiously.

"He says that you two went to Barts together. Ohh, fascinating! Your hand just went through his face." Stamford hastily withdrew his hand.

"And you're saying that he's corporeal to you?"

"May I?" Sherlock's voice was barbed and patronizing as he held out an expectant hand to his right. "It's for science. Thank you. And Stamford?" Stamford held out a hand and Sherlock grabbed his wrist and shoved it over his right hand. Stamford froze. His palm definitely was resting on scratchy wool sweater draped over a bony chest.

"Incredible! This is—" He froze again as the chest moved and vibrated; a puff of air raised the hair on his arm. "What did he say?"

"He wants to know if you recognize him." Sherlock dropped his hands back to his sides. Stamford stumbled forwards a bit as the chest disappeared from beneath his hand, all traces of body heat vanishing in an instant.

"I can't bloody well see him, now can I?"

"According to him, you were roommates in second year…worked together on at least half of your projects…'Why are you still in school; you've never cracked a book in your life."

"Marty? Marty Fenswick?"

"Watson. John Watson."

"Fairly common name," Stamford shrugged. He moved back to his desk. "I'm not coming up with a face."

"Open it yourself if you want out," Sherlock snapped over his shoulder, slipping past an office plant to seize Stamford's desk chair before he could get there.

"I'll get it," Stamford offered, changing track to open his office door. "It was nice to meet you, John."

Sherlock sniffed disapprovingly, and if John had a reply, he didn't pass it on.

"I've never heard of anything this tangible before." Stamford casted a small, sad look at the only chair left in the office—leaning sideways and lacking any form of cushioning—and sat gingerly. "And I haven't been exactly keeping notes on these types of circumstances; I'm mostly dealing with the patients when they're unconscious."

"You did feel him." Sherlock leaned back and kicked his feet up on top of the desk.

"I worked under a private-practice doctor in Glastonbury during the summers throughout my years at university. He was a bit kooky, but very science-minded. He's got theories on the subconscious and the unconscious and drifting souls and loads more…less than substantial fields. I know for fact that he kept notes on such occurrences and he's drawn some connections among them."

"Name?"

"Something common…I can't recall, but I'll dig around and see what I can find."

"I'll need an address and phone number as well," Sherlock said, hopping to his feet. "Thank you for your expediency in this matter." He straightened his coat and strode primly out the door.

"Peculiar, peculiar," Stamford murmered to no one in particular, looking down and flexing the hand that had touched John.

This was why Sherlock had approached Stamford. As long as Sherlock had a shred of evidence, Stamford would believe anything he said.

This was also why Sherlock hadn't told Stamford everything.


	2. No, John Is Not-At-All Crazy

—Come on—Mr. Holmes whined, pacing around John's living room. —Just open me a door!—

John kept his eyes riveted on his book. Mr. Holmes was generally harmless, as far as hallucinations went, but John wasn't going to encourage him to keep visiting. His attempts at ignoring Mr. Holmes rarely lasted long. The man was not a thing to be ignored; he swooped around the flat with his ridiculous height and his ridiculous hair and his ridiculous coat tails flapping about behind him as if they were entirely independent, sentient beings.

—You've not blinked for over a minute— Mr. Holmes snorted. John blinked; his eyes _were_ rather dry. —I know you can see me. And hear me. The immediate solution to both of these problems is right over there.— He jabbed a finger at the door. —I'm fathoms away from wanting to spend another session trapped in your boring apartment watching you read discards from the library or cradling your head between your knees. My mind requires stimulation-—

John closed his eyes. The last thing he needed was Mrs. Hudson to hear him chatting with a hallucination of a blatant weirdo, or to see him prop open a door outside only to come back in, or interacting in any way with this man that no one could see. Harry would get concerned the instant Mrs. Hudson gave her weekly report, and his sessions with the blank-faced psychiatrist would increase, most likely to once a week.

—-which is, of course, why your brain is clearly too afflicted for you to see that the only reasonable course of action in this situation is to open the door.—

"Mrs. Hudson!" John wailed. "A cup of tea, please!" She tottled in instantly, a fond smile twisting up on one side.

"I'm not your housekeeper," she reminded him, moving into the kitchen.

—I'm not your housekeeper— Mr. Holmes mimicked in a falsetto, turning so he could pace back towards John again, and then he saw the open door and beamed. –Good. Excellent!— He disappeared through the door before Mrs. Hudson had finished filling the kettle.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" John called, very much not watching Mr. Holmes fly out the door.


	3. John is Not Impressed

"I realize that there's nothing you can do about your startling lack of intellect, Anderson, but do try not to inflict it on others," Sherlock snapped, pushing his arm out of the way and ducking under the crime scene tape. You!" He pulled aside a quietly sobbing man, almost knocking him into the mailbox. "What happened?"

"I've given my statement," the man gasped. He was trying and entirely failing to keep a stiff upper lip.

"Triple-homicide," Lestrade said firmly, standing between them. "Mr. Thompson, why don't you go sit on the front steps?" The man stumbled up to his house and collapsed on the stairs.

"I was interrogating—"

"You were being a right bastard," Lestrade interrupted. "He just lost his wife and two daughters and you will not intimidate him."

"And tip-toeing about will reveal everything," Sherlock snorted. "If it bothers you, Chief Inspector, I advise you look the other way. Why don't you go braid hair with Anderson? I'm sure that could keep you occupied. You better not have touched the scene." He swirled away and stalked up to the house, brushing past Mr. Thompson as if he weren't there.

John glared after Sherlock, and then turned and began walking as fast as he could down the street.


	4. John is Not a Fan

John had heard about ex-soldiers suffering from PTSD being haunted by the battlefield in their dreams. He'd never heard of PTSD manifesting in dreams that took his world and molded it into a battlefield.

After a few minutes of trying to calm down his frantic heartbeat, he stumbled up and went to get a glass of water. Whenever he dreamed into Mr. Holmes' world, he was there for several hours; he always woke up a couple of hours after he had fallen asleep feeling more exhausted than when he had first lain down. Nights were stressful.

John looked out the window over the kitchen sink. The sky was glowing; sunrise wasn't for another hour or so. Mr. Holmes popped in every other day or so, so he wouldn't be imagining him all day.

John wondered if it would be possible to train his mind to believe that Mr. Holmes only came once every four days, then once every week, then once every other week…

He should tell Mrs. Hudson, tell Harry, tell his psychologist, but he didn't want to see the reaction. He didn't want to see Harry's eyes widen sympathetically, a hand patting his hair, a nod to Mrs. Hudson for tighter surveillance.

John wished he could fix himself.


	5. Sherlock Experiments with Partnership

"Go stand in the hall," Sherlock ordered. "Or better yet, go back. I'm in no mood to entertain today, John, and I'd rather not see your face at the moment—it's painfully easy to read and as of now I need _focus_." John defiantly attempted to sit in an armchair, which worked well enough until his bottom sank right through the seat and left him suspended, lightweight, amidst the springs.

Sherlock tucked a pipe into the corner of his mouth and quietly regarded the ceiling. John's eyes drifted up as well. Sherlock's ceiling was disgusting: an easel displaying years of chemistry experiments gone horribly wrong. There was ash trailing out from near the fireplace and a dark mold coming in from the corner by the window. The rest of the corners were dripping with cobwebs.

"Ha!" Sherlock breathed. "Of course!" He skipped over to the mantle, picked up his mobile, and fired off a text. "Now that that's done, how about tea?"

John did an admirable impression of someone who was not there and Sherlock tossed his head and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Boring!" he called as he filled up the kettle. "Boring and predictable. How positively dreadful! I'll bet you can't begin to appreciate how easy you have it. Surely you see how you are, but I suppose with a world like yours, it can't be helped. How ghastly your world is; you should have fun with these visits." He flipped the switch and plugged in the kettle. "Stamford hasn't replied about that doctor yet, but I thought we should make a joint appearance. You might listen to him."

John barked a laugh before he could catch himself, but refrained from saying _as if anyone could __**not**__ listen to you_, but apparently that was enough for Sherlock.

"Let's look at the facts, shall we? We've seen each other at least a couple dozen times, and the only time in which you have spoken to me was when trying to talk to Stamford. I first considered you might be mute, but whenever I fall into your world, you're quite capable of speech. You've completely hidden my existence from Mrs. Hudson, whom you at times treat like an aunt, a housekeeper, or a prison guard. Usually these observations add up to a distinct and obvious relationship. She could be an overbearing housekeeper that you're especially fond of, or, given your time spent in the battlefield, your complete solitude, your lack of any productivity—even by _normal _standards— your inability to sleep for extended periods of time, your habitual limp, and your acceptance of everything within your situation…she is your personal care assistant. Oh, call it what you will, she's helping around the house and making sure you don't hurt yourself, but she herself says that she's not your housekeeper. You have to prove that you are capable of living on your own, and you are so terribly busy pursuing _normal_ that when something brilliant falls into your mind, you try to ignore it, am I right?"

Even if John hadn't been ignoring Sherlock, he wouldn't have been able to string words together. The kettle clicked and Sherlock twirled back into the kitchen.

"Here you go," Sherlock said, coming back with two cups of tea. He swept an arm around the chair to hand one to John, who leaned away nervously. Sherlock let go of the cup and John, in vain, tried to catch it. Cup and saucer fell onto the cushion and boiling water began seeping into the cushion. The cup landed in his torso. John hurried to his feet and bumped into Sherlock, who had just come around the armchair.

Sherlock steadied John, but dropped his teacup, and John howled as the boiling water seared his right arm and thigh. Sherlock ducked his head and offered John a little embarrassed smile, and ignoring him be damned, John threw him over his shoulder and stormed into the kitchen.

—Turn on the spigot!—

He heard Sherlock gingerly pick himself off the floor and didn't look over as he leaned over and turned the knob.

"Fascinating," Sherlock hummed. "I wonder if the effects of the burn will last in your world, or only be visible in mine, or perhaps vanish after you wake up."

John growled. The water was running through his arm.

"Do take notes. I can help you hide them if you wish to avoid Mrs. Hudson's attention—"

John hooked an ankle around Sherlock's knee and twisted sideways, but Sherlock caught the counter and didn't fall as he'd hoped for.

"You surprised me with the throw," Sherlock said, much too close to John's back. "But I am a fairly accomplished fighter." He sidestepped so they were standing side-by-side and pressed his right foot up next to John's. The water hit the burn and John hissed.

He didn't know why he felt so betrayed when the water had poured out of the teacup. He had seen Sherlock in action; he knew that Sherlock was rude and ignorant of things like morals, but he had actually thought the man was making him a cup of tea. But no, it had been water. John had been an involuntary member of one of Sherlock Holmes' experiments. He flicked some water at Sherlock, and Sherlock bared his teeth. It took John a moment to place it as a smile.


	6. Comeuppance, or John is Secretly Pleased

"Brother !" Harry beamed, throwing her arms around John and yanking him into a long hug. Her latest hairstyle involved copious amounts of hair gel and there was a spiky tendril poking into the soft skin behind his right ear.

"Sister," he said, patting her a few times on the back until she released him.

"You've looked better," she said as she finally pulled back. Harry straightened out her skirt and sat down. John waited a few seconds before sitting down as well.

"Still recovering from the surgery?" he offered, trying to tug his sleeves down a bit lower. His burns were prickling against his over-starched shirt (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson).

"Dear Brother, how dreadful!" Harry exclaimed. Her wrist bangles jingled when her hands moved. John didn't think anyone over the age of thirty should be allowed to have jingling wrist bangles.

"How are you keeping?" he said, desperate for a change in conversation. Before she could answer, a waiter came up to take their orders. Harry got some fruity combination tea; John ordered Earl Grey.

"Mrs. Hudson mentioned that the nightmares are still rampant," Harry said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "And she suspects you have a firearm hidden in your bedroom." John scowled at the menagerie of folded napkins in the center of the table.

"I didn't leave Afghanistan the same," he said vaguely. He wasn't acknowledging the firearm comment.

"You still scream." She patted his arm consolingly. "You're not making any progress, are you? Don't you think—"

—He's apologizing to her for coming home late when she made him dinner, but she's sleeping with his best friend. She feels bad, but she's trying to make him feel worse so she doesn't have to think about it.— Weeks of practice prevented John from spinning around to find Mr. Holmes and see whom he was indicating; he focused on Harry's face. —And this is…your aunt? She can't be much older than you, God forbid the bangles, but—

"—I'm just concerned, after all." Harry let off of his arm. Mr. Holmes meandered over and leaned against the wall, right beside Harry.

—The burn's still there, oh, that must have been agony. And you're keeping it covered…of course; Hudson reports to your aunt, and Hudson would've known it you'd been burned—

"Sister," John said, and he was gratified to see Mr. Holmes' face twist in shock. "Allow me to remind you that this process—readjustment and healing—all take a matter of months. The more support you permit me now will be the longer it takes to readjust. You know that. Let's talk about something else."

—Your sister is in charge of your care. Orphans, then.—

"Mum's been on my case again about visiting for dinner. She says Dad's missing us, but doesn't want to say anything. As if Dad would miss me. You're the one he misses—" John gloated momentarily over Mr. Holmes' expression (shocked twice with a minute, how marvelous), but stiffened as it became clear that she was going to continue discussing family. He didn't want Sherlock to hear any of that.

"Dearest Sister, if you don't mind my asking, how is Clara?" Harry beamed and grew more expressive with her hands, which resulted in even more jingling.

"Oh, we broke up, but don't worry; I've found someone else. Her name is Lin Yao, and she's from China."

"You don't speak a word of Chinese."

"She speaks flawless English, and she works at the National Antiquities Museum. You want to know how we met?" Harry wiggled her eyebrows in a truly disturbing manner.

—The blond waiter, when do you think he last slept? Look how he walks, as if his legs are made entirely of knees, his reactions are slow, his expression is frozen.— John laid three fingers against his thigh. —Assumable because he can't wake himself up with caffeine; but look at his teeth. They're stained; at his age and with that amount of stain, he's a habitual tea-drinker. He's missed one night of sleep, and the caffeine hasn't kicked in yet. He looks more like three nights because last night was rough on him; he left his girlfriend because she wouldn't fight for their relationship and he's regretting it but he doesn't want to go back. He fully intended to go crash at a friend's, probably one of his drinking buddies from last night, but he ended up working double-shift. Your dear sister Harry just asked if you are interested in anyone.—

"Ah," John said, and now that he was paying proper attention, he realized that Harry was staring at him, head cocked to one side. "Not really, no."

"So, yes?" Harry pressed.

"Actually, no," John said flatly. "And if I did have someone I was interested in, I certainly wouldn't make a move now. Not when I'm being sat for."

"You like Mrs. Hudson!"

"As do you. But you wouldn't want to bring Linn Yao home to her."

Harry grinned mischievously. "I could give Mrs. Hudson a night off."

"That's, no, I wasn't saying that," John spluttered.

"I could teach you some of my moves to lure in the ladies." Harry was doing the alarming wiggly thing with her eyebrows again. "Susan thought she was completely straight before we met."

—For all the mad-animal lesbian sex vibes your sister sends out, she's rather dull. You should never meet with her again unless you actually have things to be talking about.—Mr. Holmes tried sitting on one of the chairs and fell through to the ground. John snorted with laughter.

"See, John, we've got the same humor!" Harry said, extremely pleased. Mr. Holmes climbed back to his feet and started studying the rest of the tea shop's population for interesting people. "And if it worked for me, by golly can it work for you. But somehow I don't think that's your problem. You're extremely good at being charming, all Watsons are, I think your problem is becoming an object of desire." John spluttered into his tea.

— You're horrible at directing conversation. You've gone from your sister's sexual exploits to attempting to make you sexually appealing.— John didn't look at him.

"Book club, yeah?" John said. "How's that been going?" An elbow made hard contact with the side of his head and he turned around to see Mr. Holmes' back against the back of his chair.

"I'm so sorry!" the blond waiter said. "Sir, are you alright?" Mr. Holmes span out of the way and John saw his nametag—Seth—and his white face and a teapot on the floor, tea spilling across the patterned tile.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Mr. Holmes was leaning against the wall, his body curving in on itself. When he looked up, John could only see dark, wild eyes; the rest was concealed under his ridiculous mop of hair and his upturned coat collar.

"Where did the tea land?" Seth held out a handkerchief and Mr. Holmes looked away.

"I'm fine," John repeated. "Just, ah, point me to the toilet." He nudged Mr. Holmes with his foot as he passed him, Seth eagerly leading the way.

—Curious. The effects of the burn are stronger.— Mr. Holmes' voice was striped with agony. John waited for Seth to close the toilet door before he answered.

"I think it's because we're weaker in each others' world." He had barely turned on the faucet when Mr. Holmes banged shoulders with him and ran his hand under the warm water. Mr. Holmes' coat had caught the majority of the tea, but there was an angry red splotch around his thumb and the back of his right hand.

—My coat—Mr. Holmes mourned.—Happy, John?—

"I fail to see how any of this is my fault," John said. "Why do you fall asleep in that coat? And you're always wearing it, even in your world. Something was bound to happen, and I doubt it can't be fixed—" Mr. Holmes glared reproachfully. "But for what it's worth, thank you, Mr. Holmes."

—Self-preservation—Mr. Holmes insisted.—If Harry had seen the burns on your arm, you'd be back to uncivil in the blink of an eye, and I'd be miserably bored again.—

"Is your hand alright?" It was hard to see how serious the burn was with the water distorting and magnifying the colour.

—I'll show you mine if you show me yours.—

John slapped Mr. Holmes on the back of the head (because he really was ridiculous) and rolled up his sleeve.


	7. In Which Anderson is Actually Awful

"Top floor," Lestrade prompted. "So we know it wasn't a cripple."

"Have you had a high cripple criminal population that you failed to mention? The chances of a cripple acting as a serial murderer…" He trailed off, shaking his head as though Lestrade's ignorance was actually painful to him. "Don't hurt yourself, Lestrade, and leave the thinking to those who are good at it."

John looked up the spiraling stairs. He didn't feel a particular need to head to the top floor, which was at least another three flights.

"Isn't that what your thing is? Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains—no matter how improbable—is the truth? I'm eliminating. And it was a joke, Sherlock." Lestrade's voice faded away as they climbed up the next flight.

"He's at it again." Anderson snide voice rang up from the floor below.

"It's always a game, with him playing with the crims." Donovan's voice carried up as well. They rounded the corner and walked through John. "One of these days, I'm telling you, will be the last. Some unlucky bastard is going to get caught up when it's him playing with us, and we'll have the nastiest time catching him."

"He plays alone." John started following them, mouth twisted into a scowl. "So we might get lucky. All it takes is one bullet in the wrong place."

"Oh, stop, you," Donovan laughed, bumping shoulders with Anderson, who looked especially pleased, as if he had just told an especially funny joke. They giggled up the next flight of stairs; John, hobbling along behind them, poked through their legs with his cane. He took great care in aiming for their knees.

Sherlock looked up when Anderson and Donovan came into the room and a smirk tweaked the corner of his mouth when John got one last good poke through Anderson's stomach.

"_Rache_, of course," Anderson drawled, "is German."

"Shut up Anderson and turn around. Your face is putting me off," Sherlock said, refocusing on the garishly pink body of a woman on the floor. It took John a moment to see the letters carved in the floor. "Where's her suitcase?"

"Suitcase?"

"Yes, suitcase! A small one, with wheels."

"There's no suitcase, freak." Donovan emphasized the "fr." John bristled; Sherlock grinned.

"Excellent," he crowed. "Excellent!"

"Of course," Anderson said. "Because it's not here; of course that's excellent—"

"Because it means that it is still in the car of her killer, or else has been quickly dumped in the vicinity. Look at her wardrobe; I doubt it would be a far stretch to assume the colour of her suitcase?"

"We don't know who she is."

"You don't know who she is," Sherlock corrected snidely.


	8. A Proposal

John opened his eyes blearily. There was a woman sitting on the edge of his bed. He blinked a few times; she was quite gorgeous. And on his bed.

"Hello," she said, not looking up from her phone. "I have a proposition for you."

"Who are you?" John demanded, scrambling to get his sheets to his chin. "How did you get in?"

"Anthea. The front door."

"Did Harry send you?"

"No. It's about Sherlock. I'm here on behalf of an interested party."

"Sherlock?" John repeated, sitting upright. "I don't know anyone named Sherlock."

"I never said Sherlock was a person." Anthea set her phone down in her lap. "Sherlock Holmes, the man you see when he sleeps or you sleep. I'd like to hear updates on him, and I'd like to help you readjust to London. You're financially dependent on the government and your sister's care plan is preventing you from actually accomplishing anything."

"I don't…how?"

"You think you and Sherlock are the only ones?" Anthea smiled, all teeth. "I've got a friend with me right now." Her smile turned sharper. "She would like you to know that she sleeps in the nude." John tugged his sheet to his nose.

"I'm not a buyout," John said. His voice was muffled by the sheet. "I think you should get out of my apartment before Mrs. Hudson finds you."

"You've been with him a while now. What do you think of him, soldier? Is it going to be blind loyalty, or you being sensible?" She met his eye, and that was when John pushed back his sheets and got out of bed.

"Pardon me if I'm wrong," he said, voice stony, "but I don't think it's any of your business. And you will be leaving now."

"Alright, John." She stretched out her legs and climbed to her feet. "Take it easy."

"What was your name again?" John asked. She didn't look up from her phone as she answered.

"Bellamy."


	9. Sherlock Reaches New Levels of Idiocy

"You've no authority—"

"Sherlock, you were laid up in the hospital for a week because of overdose; I think we've got reason to suspect—"

"No evidence!" Sherlock barked. "You can't bully me, Lestrade."

"Oh, please do tell how he can't bully you," Donovan snarled. "You get off on it. You need Greg as much as we use you."

"And we're going to have to take the case," Anderson sneered.

"Funny how it popped up here," Donovan said. "The case that the killer removed from the scene."

"Go ahead and take it! Take it and go; I can't think with all this noise. And the case was useless; her phone wasn't there."

"Who says she had a phone?" Anderson said defiantly.

"As much as I'd love to listen to Anderson make noise," Sherlock said, "I'm afraid I really don't have the time. Lock up on the way out." He grabbed John's arm and dragged him out the door.

—What happened?—

"The case was located in a nearby dump, of course; the phone was not located in the case, which means…"

—The killer has it?—

"Precisely. Taxi!" Sherlock threw a hand into the air. "So, naturally, I contacted the number on her luggage tag and requested a meeting on the street corner."

—What? Where?— A taxi pulled up and Sherlock opened the door. One of Sherlock's hands floated on John's back; he bumped their knees together as they sat.

"22 Northumberland."

—You asked a serial murderer to meet you on a street corner.— Sherlock pulled out his mobile and pressed it to his ear.

"He'll be there. Curiosity is an excellent source of predictability."

—And what are you going to do if you find him?—

"Chat for a bit; discuss motives; maybe even pull out the handcuffs." Sherlock tweaked one of his pockets and John saw the glimmer of a pair of handcuffs.

—Where did you get those?—

"Lestrade. And you thought my coat was unnecessary."

—What else do you have in there?—

"Enough to be going on."

—Why not invite the Yard? You're going at this alone.—

"Won't you be there?" Sherlock pointed out, looking out the window.

—And a fat lot of use I'd be.—

"Moral support, or something." Sherlock shrugged. He shifted his mobile to his other ear. "What do people usually say?" John looked down and saw a word that he had written on the back of his hand.

—There's someone on my side who knows about you. Her name is Bellamy, but I don't think it's her real name."

"Is this your romantic interest?"

—She wants to pay me to report about you.—

"Fantastic."

—I refused. Of course I refused.—

"That's stupid. You're stupid. You need money."

—There's other people traveling in their sleep. There was someone with Bellamy when she stopped by.—

"I haven't told anyone."

—You told Mike.—

"Stamford doesn't count. You were there, and we weren't talking then."

—And you're not the least bit worried that there's someone actively hunting you down?—

"No need to get all melodramatic. She's just looking for a bit of information that she could find if she were in this world."

—If that's all, I'll just drop it.—

"22 Northumberland," the cabbie announced. Sherlock slid a bill under the glass.

—A shady street corner, at that.—

"It wouldn't do to find a busy street corner, where everyone and their doctor pause." Sherlock opened the door beneath a neon-glowing open sign. "You're not exactly in fighting shape. You should eat something while we wait."

"Sherlock!"

"Angelo!" Sherlock had a fraction of the gusto as the hefty, mustached man that looked on the verge of a hug.

"Are you here to take me up on the free meal?"

"Table for two, if you don't mind," Sherlock said. "By the window, preferably."

"Oh!" Angelo said, and his smile grew impossibly bigger. "Date night, is it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I can arrange that. All on the house, of course."

—It's not a date!— John's voice came out a bit louder than intended.

"And how would you explain the table for two," Sherlock muttered out of the corner of his mouth as they followed Angelo to their table. "Especially when you won't be making an appearance."

"I'll dim the lights," Angelo said. "And bring out the candles."

—For crying out loud, no!—

Sherlock leaned over. "How many people did you want watching you eat?"

John shrunk down into the seat across Sherlock, back to the window, feet bumping into each other.

"For one who was so concerned with our interaction being noticed, you are horribly slack on covering it."

—You're not even curious!—

"I have a lot of enemies." Sherlock looked unbearably smug. "If I spent my time cataloguing them, I wouldn't have time for things that really matter."

—That's not normal.—

"I should hope not." He looked affronted by the idea.

—Do you have any friends?—

"_Friends _is a social concept that doesn't translate well from your world to mine," Sherlock said. Angelo returned with the candles and Sherlock ordered (too quick for John to catch what it was). "Do use your eyes and think, John. In all the time that you've dashed in and out of my life, have you seen or heard of the existence of anyone who I consider a friend?"

—No.—

"Then maybe we could go ahead and make the neat assumption that I'm not just a freak when you're around." Sherlock smiled with his lips, but his eyes were frosty. Angelo jogged up to their table with a tray full of appetizers.

—So no dating? Because I'm not above scheduling my sleep hours around when you're not bringing home a girl.—

"Girlfriends aren't really my area." Sherlock shivered a bit; he looked uncomfortable with the idea.

—A boy-friend? Which is completely fine, by the way.—

"Naturally, it's fine."

—So you've got a boyfriend.—

"No."

—Right, great. Unattached, like me. Fine. Good.— John picked up a piece of Biscotti and, holding it low to the table, took an enormous bite.

"I consider myself married to my work," Sherlock said stiffly, leaning back away from the table a little bit. "While I'm flattered, I'm really not looking—" John spluttered on his Biscotti and shook his head wildly. His neck and a good portion of his face was bright red. He had just about cleared his airway when Sherlock started talking again.

"Look, across the street. The taxi that just stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

He leapt to his feet and out the door; a soon as he made it to the street, the taxi cab began moving again. He closed his eyes and grabbed at his temples.

—I've got the taxi number. Could Lestrade track him down?—

"No time for that, John." Sherlock looked up, clarity written in his face. He began sprinting down a side street.

John followed. Sherlock hurtled down alleys, jumped trash bins, and flew through fire escapes until, tearing around a corner, he threw himself in front of the taxi. John careened into his legs. Sherlock flew onto the roof of the taxi, which stopped on top of John.

John crawled out as Sherlock wretched open the side door and looked down at its passenger.

"Californian tourist. First time here."

The passenger stared back up at them, his expression and posture screaming jetlag. "Who? What? Are you the police?"

"Yes," Sherlock beamed. "Welcome to London." John couldn't help himself; he started giggling.

Sherlock shut the car door and backed up with a little two-finger salute.

—Just a cab?—

"Just a cab," Sherlock agreed. He looked extremely put out.

—So what now?—

"I figure out the next measure. Come along; my apartment's just around the corner."

Just around the corner translated to four blocks. Sherlock didn't make the slightest effort to keep up conversation and, after a few stunted attempts, John trailed him silently. When Sherlock was thinking, his stride elongated and John had to jog every three steps to keep pace.

"The pieces are always there," Sherlock said. "It's just a matter of arranging them. Pill, serial suicide, one at a time. He has the phone, but he didn't bother showing up. He knows? It wouldn't be difficult to keep a watch on the suitcase; he was there before; he was at the restaurant?"

—How certain are you it was a man?—

"Statistics are guiding my pronoun use." Sherlock scratched at his head. "Females are much less likely to commit serial murders." He wouldn't communicate much else, but instead fell into incomprehensible mumbling.

"Feel free to sleep," Sherlock said, holding the front door open for John. "I might not come up with my next step for another hour or so."

—Different plan— John suggested. –You do your thinking in the kitchen and I'll try to drive a wedge between food prep and mold growths.—

Sherlock sat on the countertop, sleeves rolled up his arm, and a leg hanging down by John's hip. John cracked a window, rolled up his own sleeves, and got to work in the sink. He had just started reaching for dishes outside of the basin when Sherlock leapt to his feet.

"Ha!" He moved away before John could put the ceramic bowl down, it fell through his fingers and broke against the kitchen tile. "Rachel, John. Rachel! Don't you see?"

—I don't actually. I'm afraid you'll have to spell it out.—

Sherlock dug through his pockets and pulled out a pink luggage tag. "People can be so sentimental."

—Is that necessarily a bad thing?—

"Yes." Sherlock said it like a pure, blind statement of fact. "She was brilliant though, more brilliant than you can imagine. She left us the clues to solve her death."

—Yeah, still not following. Who's Rachel?—

"That's irrelevant." Sherlock threw open his laptop and began typing furiously. John wiped his hands dry on his pants and came to look over Sherlock's shoulder. "She's clever, John. She believed she was going to die, before she even got out of the car. Why do you think she left her phone in the car?"

The doorbell buzzed.

"Leave it!"

—Not much else I can do, is there?—

"GPS, John. Our killer has the phone, even if he doesn't know he has it. And the tracking device on her account…" Sherlock abruptly stopped talking. This blinking GPS locator was hovering over Sherlock's apartment.

—Maybe the phone's here? It could have fallen out of the bag.—

The doorbell buzzed again. Sherlock snarled a string of consonants and tapped the "find location" button again before running down the steps two at a time. John went over to the stairs and peered out the window. It was fairly late to be calling. There was a taxicab outside and John paused, staring at the license plate number. Pieces slotted together in an instant.

John ran down the stairs. Sherlock was talking to the cab driver, his head cocked curiously. The cab driver held open the door for Sherlock.

—DON'T!— John bellowed, banging on the door.

Sherlock hesitated, looking back at the cabbie. The cabbie smiled and said something, and Sherlock folded himself into the cab. John sprinted back upstairs and ran to the window cracked over the sink as the taxi sped down the seat, Sherlock's curly head visible through the back window.

He ran back to the computer. John stared at the dot, willing for it to stop.

—What were you thinking? You know he kills people and you jump right into his cab!— The dot was still moving, winding its way through side streets. John banged at the table. His hands squished unsatisfyingly into the wood

Sherlock thought he was clever. He thought he was so clever that he could just go along and do what the _serial suicider_ asked him to do because he could back out of it whenever he liked. John wanted to punch him.

He stood, hunched over the laptop, tracking the blinking GPS and conjuring a mental map of the metro system.

The dot stopped and John forced himself to count out a minute.

Convinced it wasn't just a red light, John jumped onto the kitchen counter, sinking down through the top inch or so before he managed to vault to the window sill. The cement looked unflexible six floors below. John jumped.


	10. Luck of the Draw

"How do you get people to play your game?"

"That's not necessary for you," the cabbie said. He looked supremely unconcerned and slouched at the back of his chair.

"But for the others?"

The cabbie pulled out a gun and rested it on the table. Sherlock pulled a disgruntled face.

"How dull."

"Isn't it?" the cabbie agreed. "Which bottle'll it be, then?"

"I'll have the bullet." He templed his fingers and smiled back.

"Sure?"

"Deadly certain."

The cabbie pulled the trigger, and a flame popped out of the end. "You'll have seen a gun before now. Not that it matters, of course. You'll be wanting to see who wins this."

"Wins," Sherlock scoffed. "It's a matter of luck."

"Four times I've played and four times I've won. You call that luck if you like, Mr. Holmes; you call it that if you can't understand it; if you can't read my mind."

"Mind-reading? I don't read minds; I observe everything."

"I read people. It's so easy, even you. I can see how you think. I see you never step down from a challenge. Is this going to be the challenge that breaks your resolve, Mr. Holmes?"

"Why this game? Surely there's an initiative."

"'Course there's one. There's funding, if you talk to the right people."

"Who are these people?"

"Now Mr. Holmes, there's no reason to tell you that, now is there?"

Sherlock snagged the pill bottle closest to him, dumped it into his hand, and raised the pill to his mouth.

"Tell me as we take."

A shot cracked the relative quiet; Sherlock threw himself to the ground and saw the cabbie fall. Sherlock clambered to his feet and looked out through the broken window to the opposite building. No one was there.

"What was the name?" he roared, dialing for Lestrade one-handed and stomping on his hand.

"Moriarty," the cabbie gasped. His face was turning blue.

"Was I right? Did I pick the right one?"

By the time Lestrade arrived, he was dead.

"Of course you would be here," Donovan snipped. "And the victim's cause of death is unknown—"

"To you, perhaps," Sherlock retorted. "A distance shot with that precision—the target was clearly hit because he left directly afterwards—and clearly acclimatized to violence; evidently possessed strong moral principle; I would say a man with a history of military service—"

"There was no bullet," Anderson interrupted.

"What?"

Anderson and Donovan smirked.


	11. Mrs Hudson is Having None of It

"John! Are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, bustling through the door. John shook his head and looked around the living room in mild disbelief. He was still in his pajamas—as was Mrs. Hudson, although she had the decency to put on a robe before checking in on John—and there was definitely a gun in his left hand and a familiar tingling sensation that he had in his fingertips after shooting.

"Oi!" Mrs. Hudson let loose. "What have you done to my wall?" John looked up and, sure enough, there was a bullet hole directly over the couch. He stuffed his gun unceremoniously into the back of his waistband and gave her the best smile he could muster before apologizing.


End file.
